Samphire Song

by Jill Hucklesby

  But something is telling me Samphire and I should be together. It’s not logical to want a crazy horse. But this isn’t about logic. It’s a feeling coming from somewhere so deep inside, a place I thought was buried away, never to be prised open. I don’t have control over it, now it’s escaped. It seems to be controlling me.

  ‘We should go and find a seat in the arena,’ says Mum, her voice a little hushed to mask her frustration.

  We leave Lady and work our way to the circular, wooden structure. Inside, the seats are raked and there’s a small, round space at the centre. A raised, enclosed box with glassless windows gives the auctioneer a roof over his head. He’s sitting waiting, tapping his microphone every so often to make sure the sound system is working.

  We find two spaces on the wooden trestle benches and sit down. Mum studies the catalogue, trying to avoid confrontation with me. I think she hopes she’ll find a last-minute alternative to the horse of my dreams, which is the horse of her nightmares.

  ‘He’s not even properly broken in, Jodie,’ Mum says at last. ‘He’s not used to being ridden.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just been with the wrong people,’ I reply. I know Mum’s right. By the age of three, he should be rideable.

  ‘What if he’s too wild to tame?’ she asks. ‘He’s a stallion, after all.’

  ‘I’ll send for that guy who whispers in horses’ ears,’ I reply with a shrug.

  ‘I think Dad would be saying no,’ counters Mum. That was a bit below the belt.

  ‘I bet Granny and Granddad didn’t want him to fly jets, but he made up his mind and he knew the risks,’ I respond. My eyes are pricking. I’m so not going to cry.

  Mum sighs. And then she smiles, pushing some hair off her face. ‘That’s just the kind of thing he would have said,’ she comments. ‘I could never win an argument against him. But you know the budget, Jode. Thirteen-fifty top whack because of the tax on top. If it goes above that, you have to let him go.’

  ‘Okey dokey,’ I confirm, swallowing hard.

  There are now no seats anywhere. Looking around, it’s a sea of T-shirts; mutts on leads; families; individuals; owners; dealers. There’s noise from the many excited conversations, heads bowed over the catalogues, pens ringing chosen animals.

  Moments later, the wooden gate leading to the enclosures swings open and a frightened foal of about six months is ushered into the arena. It runs round the perimeter, trying to avoid the female usher who is tasked with keeping it on the move so that buyers can assess its condition.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman,’ says the auctioneer from his raised booth. ‘Welcome to the New Forest sale for August. Can I remind you that the currency for sale of the lots is in guineas today, a guinea being worth one pound and five pence in current values. Bidders must be registered and have a card. Please do not bid unless you have this card, otherwise your bid will be void. Thank you all. Let’s get down to business. First up today, we have this bay filly foal, bred in the Forest. Sire is Mr Brumby. Dam is Magic Flute. A nice example. Can we say ten guineas? Twelve guineas, fourteen guineas . . .’

  Bidding gets off to a flying start. The auctioneer’s voice becomes a chant of figures, rhythmic, compelling. I’m trying to follow the action in the crowd and see who’s raising their hand or nodding to raise the stakes. It all happens so fast, yet the auctioneer’s eyes miss nothing.

  ‘Thirty-one guineas, are we all done at thirty-one guineas? Going once, going twice, all done now, sold to the lady on my left. Raise your number, please. Thank you.’

  The woman, who seems to be alone, looks very pleased. Her foal is being herded out of the arena through a different door into a narrow corridor, which leads back to the enclosures. A new pony is entering now. The process seems very smooth and well organised. In less than three minutes, the foal has changed ownership and is starting a new life. I hope she will be happy.

  Bidding for the pony gets underway and once again is brisk and determined. This time, an elderly man raises his pipe to increase his offers. The pony is his for thirty-five guineas. It seems such a small amount of money. You can’t buy a dog for that.

  Looking down into the arena, it reminds me of that film where the Roman gladiators fight with lions as entertainment for the crowds. At least here the animals are unhurt and their ordeal in the ring only lasts a few minutes.

  Very soon, it is Lady who is brought in. Her owner, the woman with the pink lipstick, runs athletically by her side as she trots round the perimeter, head high, feet lifted and sure.

  ‘And here we have a fine example of a filly from the Mansbridge family stable. Jenny Mansbridge showing her today. Both, if I might say, very well turned out.’

  There is laughter from the crowd and a nod in thanks from Jenny. It seems that many of the owners are known to the buyers. The world of horses is quite close-knit. The friendship is always competitive, though, even at my stables.

  Mum is clasping her hands together. ‘I think you could be making a big mistake,’ she warns. ‘That horse is perfection on legs. She wouldn’t hurt you.’

  ‘Samphire won’t hurt me,’ I tell her, holding her gaze. ‘I know he won’t.’

  ‘Do we have one hundred guineas? One hundred and fifty, two hundred, two hundred and twenty, two hundred and fifty . . .’ The auctioneer’s voice buzzes in my head, a monotone drone, which becomes like a drill hammering into the recesses of my brain.

  For an awful moment, I think Mum is going to bid for Lady. She raises her hand and the auctioneer’s steely gaze alights on her, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Sorry,’ she mouths and his attention moves away swiftly, scanning the crowd. ‘I was just trying to ease my shoulder,’ she explains. Mum’s had a slightly frozen shoulder since Dad died. It’s as if part of her locked up that day.

  ‘Three hundred, three hundred and twenty, three hundred and fifty . . .’

  The bidding is animated. Lady is standing centre stage, snorting prettily. She knows her worth, right down to her dainty fetlocks.

  ‘Four hundred guineas, four-fifty, five. Five hundred guineas, five-fifty from my right, six hundred. Six hundred and fifty. Seven hundred, thank you, sir. Seven hundred and fifty on my left. Eight hundred guineas. Eight-fifty. Nine hundred. Are we all done at nine hundred for this lovely filly? Nine hundred once, twice, and all done, thank you, the lady in the central aisle.’

  The wooden gavel hits the block and Lady’s fate is sealed. I lean forwards to get a good look at the woman who has bought her. A girl a little younger than me is jumping up and down next to her, waving her arms in the air. Her smile is as wide as a crescent moon. I can appreciate the surge of joy she must be feeling. I hope that, soon, I will be in the same position.

  As Lady leaves the ring, Jenny kisses her on the head. It’s strange how some animals have charmed lives, full of affection, and others have years of misery and cruelty. It’s often just down to how they look and where they’re born. It’s the same for people too, I suppose. The luck of the draw, as Dad would have said.

  We’re on lot number thirty-eight now. There are only five more until the moment of truth, as two of the lots consist of several animals.

  My legs are numb from the wooden bench and I’m digging my heels into the planks beneath my trainers. We may well go home without a horse today, if the bidding doesn’t go my way, and for the rest of my life I will remember the moment Samphire was nearly mine.

  Mum takes my hand and grips it as lot number forty-nine, a miniature Shetland, is sold for two hundred and twenty guineas. Its small frame scurries through the exit door in a flurry of hooves and tail tossing.

  There is a sudden hush throughout the crowd. Lot number fifty has not yet appeared. There is the sound of shod feet lashing out against wood and men’s voices and then an angry whinny rises above all the others from the enclosures.

  Samphire. He is not going to come quietly.

  The wooden gate into the arena crashes back and the horse tha
t canters in, halter lead dangling, causes voices to exclaim all around me in a wave of surprise and interest.

  Samphire enters alone. The man stays well back behind the gate, shaking his head, rubbing his leg, which has probably just suffered a well-placed kick.

  My heart is banging like a hammer on a dustbin lid. It seems even the crowd noise is drowned out now. I’m looking at Samphire, who is trotting, wheeling, rearing when he gets too near the faces in the front row. People are whispering, wondering who will dare take on this wild creature.

  Mum’s grip is hurting my hand. I shake it free. I need all my limbs for what is to come, all my concentration.

  ‘Ready?’ Mum asks. I nod, noticing that the colour has drained from her face. Maybe it’s just that my eyes are seeing everything in black and white. Oh please no! I know what comes next. I don’t want this to happen. Not the tunnels, not the sickness and the fainting. Not now, of all times! I have to see this through. I have to try.

  ‘Lot number fifty. A spirited, part-Arab three-year-old stallion from Mr Ingram, halter broken. Shall we begin at one hundred guineas?’

  The auctioneer is beginning his patter. I try to lengthen my breathing. My palms are wet with cold sweat. I raise one hand with as much strength as I can muster.

  ‘One hundred guineas, we have one hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty . . .’

  My head is spinning. Jodie, get a grip! My hand is going up and down like a signal at a railway crossing. Mum is holding her breath, staring at her clasped hands.

  ‘Two hundred guineas, two fifty, three hundred . . .’

  The bidding is ferocious. We’re at five hundred, then six hundred, in a matter of seconds. When we top the thousand guineas marker, I am shaking from head to foot, holding my gaze on the auctioneer, doing my best not to see the agitated, ragged creature trying to find an escape route just below me. If he could grow wings, like Pegasus in the myth, he would fly – I just know he would.

  ‘Twelve hundred, twelve hundred and fifty on my right, are we going on? Yes, we are.’

  I’m raising my hand for a bid of thirteen hundred and fifty, knowing that this is it, it’s as far as I can go. There are tears welling in the corners of my eyes now.

  ‘Thirteen hundred and fifty we have, are we done at thirteen hundred and fifty?’

  Please let it be done, please let it be done.

  ‘Thirteen hundred and fifty once, twice and oh, fourteen hundred from a latecomer on my right.’

  I gasp as the pent-up emotion finally escapes and my body crumples against Mum’s, which is rigid as if made of stone. I have closed my eyes. I don’t want to see the person who has just ended my dreams. I don’t want their face to be etched in my memory for ever.

  ‘Fourteen hundred guineas now. Are we done, ladies and gentlemen? I see fourteen hundred . . . and fifty. Fourteen hundred and fifty we have. Are we concluded? Going once, at fourteen hundred and fifty. Going twice, all done for this stallion at fourteen hundred and fifty.’

  The gavel comes down with a bang that sends a shudder from my teeth to my toes.

  ‘Can you raise your card please?’ asks the auctioneer.

  I feel Mum shift in her seat. She must be easing her shoulder again. Her left arm is wrapped round me, protectively. I glance at her face, which is set and determined. Just beyond it, I see something white, elevated.

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ I can barely speak.

  ‘He’s yours, Jodie. That horse needs a second chance,’ is all she says. We’re both fighting back tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, before everything goes black.

  Chapter Ten

  When I come to, my head is between my knees and I’m in some sort of a tent which smells of medicine. A woman in blue is rubbing my cold hands. Mum is next to me, kneeling on the matting, which covers the bare earth. I recognise her shoes.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. My head is throbbing. I sit up slowly and let my vision settle.

  ‘That was quite a reaction,’ says Mum, feeling my forehead. Memories rush back into my empty brain. A smile spreads across my face as my mind catches up. The closest thing to ecstasy I have ever experienced travels from my stomach to my heart, which suddenly aches with pleasure.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a horse!’

  ‘That’s nice, dear,’ says the woman rubbing my hands. I look at her more closely. She has grey hair and a name tag, which says ‘Nurse’ on it. ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I answer. She stands and pours some from a jug on a nearby table into a paper cup, giving it to me. I sip and it tastes like ice.

  ‘Have you fainted before?’ she asks. Now isn’t the time to ’fess up, I’m thinking. I don’t want Mum to be extra worried about me.

  ‘Nope,’ I lie. I’ve managed to conceal my problem from everyone so far. I know if the school finds out that I’ve passed out in the loos a couple of times after my panic attacks, Mum will be called in for a chat and they’ll all start keeping a special eye on me.

  ‘That’s good. I’m going to take your blood pressure, just to make sure. I’ll just wrap this pad around the top of your arm, dear,’ she says. I think she’s the oldest nurse I’ve ever seen. From the look of her wrinkles, she must be at least a hundred.

  Suck, suck, suck, goes the wrapper on my arm, getting tighter and tighter, as she pumps the black rubber sphere attached to a tube. She checks the numbers on the dial. Sssssss goes the air as it is released. Now she’s feeling my pulse in my right wrist and looking at the watch on her uniform.

  ‘That’s all fine,’ the nurse confirms with a smile. I notice that her teeth are very small and neat. She unwraps the pressure pad from my arm and tidies the equipment away.

  Mum still looks concerned. ‘Are you sure she’s all right?’ she asks the nurse.

  The woman smiles. ‘Right as rain, I’d say. Just the heat and excitement getting the better of her.’

  ‘Great,’ says Mum. ‘Do you feel ready to walk, Jodie? If not, I’ll leave you here and sort out the payment and paperwork for change of ownership. We need to call Sue, too, so that she can bring the trailer.’

  ‘I’m good,’ I confirm, standing up to prove it. My legs feel a bit spongy, but otherwise, everything is back to normal. ‘Thank you,’ I say to the nurse.

  ‘You’re welcome, dear,’ she replies. ‘I hope you enjoy your new horse.’

  ‘I will,’ I answer, with certainty.

  ‘Let’s just go and see him before we tackle the admin,’ says Mum, reading my mind. She slips an arm round my waist and we walk towards the enclosures. There are fewer people about now as the auction is still going on. It’s easy to find our way to Samphire’s stall.

  ‘Hey, you,’ I say to the noble grey head, which is sticking out over the door. ‘You could do with a bath,’ I tell him, noticing the clumps of dried mud matted into his mane. ‘Bet you don’t like being washed, though.’

  I take a photo of him on my phone and send it to Ed, followed by a text: Guess who’s sleeping in your bed tonight?

  I let Samphire sniff me for several minutes before I try to touch him. His nostrils flare and push at my clothes, my neck, my hair, my face. He makes a strange sound every so often, a cross between a small whinny and a cough. After a while, he lets his head rest near mine, just a few centimetres away. He watches me with his left eye.

  I move my hand slowly to his neck and run it down towards his chest with a gentle pressure. His back foot stamps and his head shakes. His eye doesn’t leave my face, though. He allows me to repeat the movement. This time, there’s no agitation, just a flickering across his skin, the muscles responding to my touch. His body is taut, though, braced for combat or escape.

  ‘Friends?’ I ask him. He turns his face towards me and flicks his ears back and forth. Without thinking, I scratch the temple between them, just as I do with Rambo, who loves that kind of spoiling. Samphire’s head jerks back. His eyes are suddenly white and fearful. He backs into the corner of the stall, kicking out at t
he partition, tossing his straggly mane and snorting.

  I’m looking him square in the face, trying to show him I’m not like the other people who have mistreated him. He can trust me. But the huge challenge ahead is beginning to become clear. I hope I’m up to it. I never want to let Samphire down.

  Mum puts her hand on my shoulder. She’s reading my mind again. Her touch is strong, reassuring. It tells me that we’re in this together.

  ‘The best friendships take time to grow,’ she says. ‘And then they last a lifetime.’

  Chapter Eleven

  My phone is buzzing and vibrating. It’s a text from Ed: OMG u bought Shadowfax. Gandalf will b mad. Has been looking everywhere 4 him.

  Samphire not Shadowfax. Part Arab. Still want to race? I reply. I think Samphire will beat his plane any day. If Samphire lets me on his back, that is.

  Must attend pilot course first. Says not for beginners on box comes the response.

  So does mine I text back.

  I’m sitting in the front of the Land Rover with Sue and we’re pulling into the yard with Samphire in the trailer behind. There’s quite a crowd waiting, including Rachel, the girls who help out on Saturdays and some parents. Mum has beaten us to it and is sitting on a hay bale outside the office.

  It’s always an event, a new arrival at Whitehawk Farm Stables. Today, even the horses in the yard sense something is going on and are snuffling at their tethers.

  In moments, I’m out of the Land Rover and unlatching the back of the trailer. Sue helps me lower it. I enter with caution, letting Samphire know that I’m coming, resting my hand on his rump, then his shoulder, finally untying his rope. Somehow, I have to back him out of this crate and I already know what he thinks of this kind of transport.

  ‘Off you go,’ I tell him, giving his chest a gentle push. No reaction, just a flaring of nostrils and a stamping of feet. ‘You’re home now.’